


It Becomes Blood

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Trans Hawke, Trans Male Character, Vampire Hawke, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: There were precisely two things Hawke could be doing with a goblet full of blood, and Fenris had no shortage of feelings about either one.
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A [request](https://wardencommando.tumblr.com/post/613120554230284288) from a Tumblr user who wishes to remain anonymous. Thank you thank you thank you, this was so much fun!

In retrospect, it all made sense. 

Fenris was unaccustomed to the rites and rituals of Fereldans, so he rarely questioned Hawke’s eccentricities. Even if he were of a mind to draw attention to the stranger aspects of Hawke, it seemed rather pointless, for they outnumbered his normalcies by a vast margin. Isabela and Anders found his many quirks to be amusing and endearing in turns, and Varric found them marketable. Aveline thought him exasperating, and Merrill thought nothing of it at all, and as for Fenris... Well, Fenris tried not to linger long over Hawke anymore, which was perhaps just another reason he had been blinded for so long.

Hawke’s body was not a thing that Fenris allowed himself to consider at any length these days, but when they’d met, he did consider Hawke’s smile to be a little sharper than the average human. Physically. Fenris had grown used to the sight, only to be keenly reminded of the observation on the night those canines grazed the flesh of his shoulder. 

He was not pale like Aveline, yet when the sun was high he wore a cloak with a hood; even in the sticky, fetid height of Kirkwall summers, Hawke wore his sleeves long and tucked into gloves, no inch of his skin to be seen. 

And when the inevitable bandit raid thrust itself upon them, Hawke often wrenched a body back from the brink of death, dragging it off with Varric for questioning. This never led to pertinent information, and the fellow always wound up dead, yet it was almost ritual after all this time.

That was to say, when Fenris followed Hawke home and slipped past Bodahn into the back rooms to discover him crouched over an unconscious bandit, what he found Hawke doing was remarkably unsurprising. Light from the hall reflected off of Hawke’s eyes, which… honestly, ought to have been another dead giveaway. No pun intended. Reflective eyes were the domain of elves alone, and Hawke was entirely human. 

At the first sight of Fenris, Hawke stopped massaging the blood from a cut in the bandit’s arm into a goblet; in fact, he jumped up and dropped the arm altogether, kicking it behind himself as he drew close. 

“Fenris! What a surprise.”

His arms were spread, almost as though he were planning to embrace him. When he noticed that Fenris’ eyes were trained on the goblet in his hand, he stumbled mid-step. “... Ah, this?”

“Hawke.”

“It’s the funniest story, and I’ll be sure to tell it as soon as I fetch Bodahn to… he let you in, did he?”

A groan from the body went ignored. 

“What are you going to do with that blood?”

This was a rhetorical question. There were precisely two things Hawke could be doing with a goblet full of blood, and Fenris had no shortage of feelings about either one.

“I was going to donate it to the Chantry, of course. You’ve seen the revered mother. Don’t you think she looks frail these days? Could do with some more blood.”

Fenris could feel his eyebrows crawling up his forehead. “Is that so.” 

“Nothing could be truer. Have you ever known me to be anything but a pious... a charitable… an honest... ahem, a man of principle?”

Truly, if his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, Fenris would not be surprised. “And why are you sweating so profusely?”

“Because it’s bloody fucking hot in here.”

It was the height of winter, and the fire had long since died. Hawke and Fenris stood in the doorway of a dark room, lit only by the sconces in the hallway. Another gurgle from the body went unmentioned. 

It came as no surprise that the one to break the silence would be Hawke. He cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “I’ll… fetch you a cup of tea, shall I?”

“And what will you be drinking?” Fenris asked. Hawke moved around him without so much of a whisper of his robe touching Fenris. 

They took tea in the parlor while Bodahn “tidied up” the back rooms. Fenris balanced the saucer and its teacup on his lap. Hawke left his to cool on the table, untouched. His fidgeting was endless, tapping on the table, running a finger around the rim of the teacup, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Fenris absorbed every modicum of his discomfort, taking a sip of herbal tea that was still hot enough to scald.

Finally, Hawke seemed to notice his own tells and deliberately sat back, twining his fingers over his stomach. “So, what brings you here this fine evening? I see you didn’t bring your books along. Could it be my company?”

“Curiosity,” said Fenris, settling the teacup on the saucer with a muted clink. 

“I hear that it kills cats. And that satisfaction brings them back. I’m - that wasn’t a flirt.”

Fenris pressed a fist to the smile that flickered at the corners of his lips. It would be irresponsible to encourage this behavior, for it was he who had silenced Hawke’s heart. More than irresponsible, it would be cruel. 

“You have always made me curious when you take hostages. You have never given a satisfactory answer for the purpose of this exercise, and I’ve yet to see it take any effect.”

“Well, that’s because the effect it takes isn’t meant to be seen.”

“Would you elaborate?”

Hawke tapped his index fingers rapidly against one another. “I’d prefer not to.”

“Then perhaps I will.”

“Oh, that really isn’t necessary -”

But Fenris held up a hand. “I do not mind. To my estimation, you have not absconded with these vagrants for information, but for their blood.”

Scratching his fingers through his beard, Hawke muttered, “I was really hoping you’d pontificate just a little. Yes, alright, Fenris, you’re a master investigator. You caught me red-handed - oh, that’s funny.”

It  _ was  _ funny. Fenris endeavored not to laugh. Hawke must have seen the shift in his expression, and began to push himself up from his chair. “Now that that’s sorted, are you hungry? I’m sure I can find some -”

“I am not finished.”

Hawke paused, and then deflated back into the chair. Slumped with shadows dancing across his face from the fireplace, Hawke was beginning to look rather tired. “No?”

“I can’t imagine this is blood magic.” Fenris’ nose wrinkled as the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Somehow, I think you’d be less evasive about your machinations if it were. You aren’t particularly religious, so a sacrifice or rite seems unlikely.”

“That just shows what you know about me. I am but a choir boy to the gods of old, Fenris.” 

“Yes, without question.” A sliver of a grin pricked at Hawke’s mouth, but was quick to fade. “This has been your way for as long as I can remember. You took a man hostage when I had known you for… barely a week, if I recall. The others did not bat an eye, so I assumed it was not abnormal.” He drew the metal plated index finger of his gauntlet over his chin. “And nobody fought to obscure your behavior more than Varric. I presume that he must know.”

Hawke slumped further into his chair, but did not speak a word. Fenris’ eyebrows, which had returned to their rightful place upon his brow, quirked upward. “And… Aveline?”

“Whatever it is you think is happening here, I can assure you that I would not let slip to  _ the captain of the guard.” _

Fenris scoffed through his nose. “That is an interesting remark from the mouth of a man who has no qualms against performing magic in the middle of Hightown while the captain of the guard stands beside him.”

“Don’t talk about my mouth when we fight.”

“Are we fighting?” Fenris truly needed to stop playing with fire. It was a dangerous habit - somehow more dangerous than sitting across the table from a mage who could kill a Qunari with his bare hands, and tear their throat out with his teeth. 

“I suppose you could say that we are having an interrogative conversation.”

“Have I gotten any further with you than you get with those bandits?”

Dragging a hand down his face, Hawke sighed. All the weariness of his years let loose in one breath. “Alright, Fenris. Go on. What is your conclusion?”

Hawke was not a man prone to concession. If Fenris were a vain man, and if the thought did not frighten him quite so much, he might be tempted to linger upon the familiarity he had been allowed to build around Hawke’s vulnerability. It would not do to think much of it, and the mirror that it held to Fenris’ own heart; that one was guarded by plate armor and thorns, and the other by oil-slick words that masked a wall of stone. The difference between them was that when Hawke pulled through the thorns and peeled back the metal shell, he slipped inside of Fenris’ heart like a hand to a glove; when Fenris drank the oil like water and fell behind that wall, he pierced the heart within to save himself. 

Discomfited by Hawke’s posture and his words, Fenris turned his gaze toward the crackling fire. “I think you drink the blood. I think you need it.”

Hawke grunted. In Fenris’ periphery, he was scratching at his jaw. “You think I’m a vampire.”

“Would I be incorrect in that assumption?”

With a haggard noise, Hawke pushed himself forward and rested his elbows on the table. “If you are, where does that leave us?”

An interesting question, and one with an answer that Fenris himself did not know. “How long have you been this way?”

It was normally Hawke’s purview to ask a question in lieu of an answer. He wasn’t one to enjoy having the tables turned on him, but he always took it with good humor. “In this hypothetical world where you are correct, my answer would be: not long. Just before we left Lothering.”

Fenris knew the story well. Hawke did not like to speak of it, but either he or his brother must have told Varric, for the detail with which he wrote the tale was explicit. 

“It must have been harrowing, to learn to carry that yoke in the middle of a Blight.”

Hawke’s face folded into a grimace. “Hypothetically, it wasn’t ideal.”

After he had finished the last dregs of his tea, Fenris set the cup aside. “So it has been five years, or thereabouts. Is that why you drink from a goblet?”

“Oh, that might be the case. You’ll have to find a vampire expert and ask at what stage we stop enjoying our meals from receptacles and go straight for the throat. Yes, I’ve stopped suggesting that all of this is hypothetical. I really don’t think the tone of your eyebrows is necessary.”

“How did it happen?”

Hawke stood up from his chair and wandered over to the fireplace. Squatting down, he poked at the lowermost log until another one dropped, sending a shower of embers up the chimney. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. Refugees were piling into Lothering from all corners of Fereldan. I was coming home from the market one early morning and a stranger accosted me while I was taking a shortcut through an alley. Bit me and fled.” He shrugged, the mass of his shoulders straining at his robe. “Bethany patched it up, and I thought no more of it. Then came the symptoms, but, well. There was a Blight on, and I was the eldest. There was no time to be ill.”

He prodded at the fire until even he seemed to find it excessive and stood, dropping the iron poker back in its rack. “It took me ages to realize something was amiss. I mean,  _ truly _ amiss. I couldn’t keep anything down and the sun felt too bright and too hot, but this was my first time at sea. I’d heard of seasickness and sun sickness, and even sea madness, so…” 

Fenris watched him stand, dusting off his backside before he stretched his spine until it popped. “So, ah, there you have it. That’s my tale of woe and mystery.” He turned his head back toward Fenris. “What are you thinking?”

What was he thinking? Fenris answered with the first thought that came to mind: “Does the blood of Darktown vagrants differ from any other?”

“Well, sure. It tastes poor.” Something funny was happening to Hawke’s face that Fenris could not find the words for. 

“Are you being facetious?”

“Hm? No, that’s just my voice. I couldn’t tell you if the blood of impoverished criminals tastes any different from the blood of… anyone else. I’ve only drunk from one. Is that really all you want to know when you learn that I feast on the blood of the living?”

Fenris considered this for its due moment. “If I think of anything else, I shall ask.”

It was Hawke’s turn to lose his eyebrows to his hairline. “What, really?”

Fenris did not care to be the only one sitting during this conversation. He stood, folding his arms across his chest. “What would you like me to ask?”

The wind in Hawke’s sails died down from one moment to the next. “I… well, nothing in particular, I suppose.” A divot appeared between his brows. “You’re very accepting of this.”

To that, Fenris could not mask his quiet laughter. He looked over at the far wall to avoid Hawke’s gaze. “I trust that you will not suddenly tear me asunder now that I know your secret.”

“Only if you ask pol - damn and blast, Fenris, stop loading bolts into my crossbow.”

Fenris pressed his grin to the cold metal of his fist and cleared his throat of laughter. “I trust you as much as I ever did. Should I not?”

“By all means, feel whatever which way you like about my aberration, as long as you don’t go gossiping to the others.”

Turning his gaze back to Hawke, Fenris could not help but inquire, “Then, who but Varric is aware?”

“Nobody. Well, you. But nobody else.”

“And Carver…?”

“Well, he’s hardly going to tell the Grey Wardens about it. But yes, Carver knows.”

Then, Fenris was struck by a sobering thought. “This was a fate thrust upon you. It is a burden you will bear until the end of your days through no fault of your own.” Hawke was quiet. Fenris searched for all that he wished to say while the fire crackled at Hawke’s back. “Yet you are… managing your situation alone. I am not unfamiliar with these circumstances. I feel no differently about you, Hawke.”

The way Hawke was looking at him became less discernible by the minute. “That’s…” He cleared his voice when it cracked. “That’s good to know, Fenris. Thank you.”

“It is no less than you have done for me.”

Hawke took a step closer and caught himself, his arms draped by his sides. It occurred to Fenris that the last time he had been alone with Hawke was after Leandra’s murder. He wondered how Hawke had slipped so many bodies past his mother to feed. He wondered if it was only now that he had begun to eat his meals in the dark.

“I hope you don’t really think you’re alone.”

Stirred from his reverie, Fenris stared up at Hawke. “I may have shared my past with you and the others, but no one can carry this weight but me.”

“Has it grown no lighter since you shared it?” This time with more deliberation, Hawke took another step forward. “Not even a little?”

Fenris recognized his posture as defensive and forced his arms to fall. “I did not mean to shift the conversation toward myself.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m doing the shifting,” Hawke said. “I don’t think I could do this without Bodahn and Varric. And if you’ll allow me a moment of sincerity, now that you know, I feel as though the weight of a mansion has been lifted from my shoulders. A good one too, one without all the furniture rotting from the inside.”

Warmth kindled in the pit of Fenris’ stomach that he did not dare to douse. “I am happy to be of service.”

“Oh, don’t say it like that.”

It was not long after that Fenris’ stomach protested the late hour without supper, and Hawke fetched him bread, cheese, and fruit. While Fenris ate, Hawke bemoaned all the things he longed to eat again. “It’s all ash in my mouth, Fenris. The finest of wines, buttered potatoes, steak: ash in my mouth.”

Curious, Fenris finished his handful of cherries and said, “Perhaps you ought to expand your horizons.”

“What, like drink from a pig and pretend I’m enjoying a bacon breakfast? I can tell you from experience that that’s not how it works.”

“Don’t elaborate. I meant that you could drink from someone else. Someone you trust.” 

“Every time I beg Varric for a taste, he insists I’ll end up with a mouthful of hair. Frankly, I don’t doubt it.”

Fenris dropped the sticky pits onto his plate. “It’s only a drink, is it not? I would offer my services.”

Hawke’s jovial expression froze. After a moment of silence, the whole room seemed a little warmer. 

“That’s rather generous of you, Fenris.”

The low note of his voice struck the chord of Fenris’ breast and left him shaken. The last time he had heard that tone coming from Hawke, he was on his knees, each one planted on the opposite sides of Hawke’s hips as he leaned down, baring his neck to the ferocity of Hawke’s kisses. The chord was struck once more as he wondered what turn it might have taken, what might have happened then if he had known Hawke’s secret - if he had sunk his teeth into Fenris as Fenris sank into him - 

“Think nothing of it,” Fenris coughed, wishing desperately for another cup of tea. “You have only to say the word.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generous anonymous wanted another chapter, so another chapter they shall have!

The night Hawke found him pleasantly adrift after a bottle and a half of one of Danarius’ finest vintages (Sun Blonde) did not begin as an experiment, even if that was the result. It was a nice evening in Hightown; the balmy breeze had changed its course in such a way that instead of pushing an updraft of fishy sea air and lowtown rot up to coat the lungs, it wafted all the scent of the nearby bakery to Fenris’ manse. Neither too hot nor sticky was the springtime reprieve, and it was nice enough to leave the windows open. 

Well, a select few windows. The ones facing the street with the bakery, for example. The ones in his room as well. Weaving a web in such a manner meant that he, the spider, had only to exercise a little patience before he caught his first mosquito.

“Smells like bread. Maker, I miss bread.”

Fenris watched Hawke heave himself up through the window, his arms bare and bulging with the effort. He took another swig of Sun Blonde, tonguing a bitter drop that had escaped to the corner of his lips. Tonight was a very good night.

“I don’t know why it smells like baking at this hour,” Fenris drawled, tapping a metal-plated finger against the bottle in his hand. Hawke sat perched on his windowsill, crossing his arms in a casual fashion. “The bakery closes at dusk.”

“Ah, I passed them on the walk up. They’re throwing a party for one of the little ones. There were cakes. Maker, I miss  _ cake.” _ Hawke raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the bottle. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I am drinking,” Fenris snorted, tipping his chin up just a fraction. “As I imagine you would like to be.”

Hawke’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

This was far from the first of their nighttime visitations. Over the past few months, Fenris had come to learn that vampires did not require a meal half as often as mortals. Then again, Hawke could always be lying and rounding up vagrants every day, but Fenris doubted that he had the finesse. Instead he came to Fenris once or twice a week to take his meal, freely given. 

Hawke did not always come to Fenris when he was hungry, but he certainly made the trek to the mansion more often than Fenris did to the Hawke estate. Naturally he would accept if called upon, but that wasn’t really in Hawke’s nature. He was a pursuer; as long as his objective did not bore him out of his wits, he preferred to pursue. Fenris was yet interesting and fulfilling enough for Hawke’s effort, and he tried not to take as much pleasure in that fact as he did.

Though at one point he might have categorized this new aspect of his relationship with Hawke as strange, that point had passed long ago. The path that lay before them was ever twisting and turning. Fenris had little metric with which to compare something like normalcy in regards to interpersonal connections, but their companions - their friends - made it quite obvious that theirs was a convoluted path indeed. Allies to friends to lovers to limbo to friends once more, and then… well, what was the harm in adding ‘symbiotic mealtime companion’ to the list? 

“Famished, actually,” Hawke admitted, pushing himself away from the window to approach. Fenris was sprawled over a wooden chair twice-broken and twice-repaired by Hawke himself. He always claimed to be no handyman, and given the creaking and wobbly nature of it, he was right. Still, a part of Fenris he chose not to examine could not bear to turn the damn thing into kindling. 

Hawke settled onto the equally rickety lounge table before him. Fenris did not know how it could possibly hold his own weight, let alone Hawke’s enormity. “So, why are we drinking today?”

The pleasant hum between Fenris’ ears dampened a bit. He’d woken up that morning from unpleasant dreams that lingered on his heart for hours, souring the whole day. He hadn’t left the mansion once, even turning Isabela away when she’d shown up at the door to bully him down to the Hanged Man. Come to think of it, there was probably more to Hawke’s presence here than simple hunger. Fenris’ brow began to knit and he looked over toward the open window. 

“It is a night for drinking. What more reason need there be?”

“Oh, I dunno. None, I suppose, although…”

Fenris waved a hand at him. He did not have the patience for dramatics when they meant to coddle him. “Out with it.”

“Well, when I could drink, I always thought it was more fun with company.”

“I’m not drinking for fun.” Fenris took a pointed swig. 

“Right, right, you’re drinking for no reason at all.”

Silence hung between them fat and heavy, and Fenris found that he did not possess his usual proficiency in facilitating tension. He was quite poor about it when it came to dealing with Hawke at all, but apparently sitting across from him with a belly full of wine made it all the more impossible. 

“You’re making a tower of a thimble,” Fenris groused, setting the bottle down hard on the floor beside him. “I slept poorly last night, and it affected the rest of my day.”

“Did you?” Hawke leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “What kept you awake?”

Fenris rubbed at his chin, skating sharp metal over his flesh. “Nothing kept me awake. I was… my dreams were troubled. That is all.”

Hawke’s dark eyes went soft. Fenris hated it. Fenris loved him for it. 

“Troubled? How so?” When Fenris’ lips twisted, Hawke hastened to add, “You know you can always tell me when you’re… that is to say, I understand being, ah, thrust into the worst of the past while you sleep. I’m rather intimate with my nightmares at this point. If you need to get something off your chest, I’ve still got two ears attached and mostly working.”

Though he tried not to get into the habit of expelling the worst of his thoughts to others, Hawke was exceptionally good at reaching in and fishing around in it anyway. The filth in Fenris’ mind may as well have been a cool, clear spring for how often Hawke waded into it. “Thank you, but these nightmares weren’t memories.”

“Oh. No? Then I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar. If I’m not being haunted by memories, my dreams are bliss. Tiny cakes and rainbows, all.” 

“That does sound like you,” Fenris mused, to which Hawke sniffed and turned up his nose. Something about it melted the frost that had begun to creep around Fenris’ heart. His eyes trailed down to Hawke’s bare shoulder where it lingered over scar and muscle. “They were strange dreams. I do not often dream at all, and when I do, my dreams are… muffled. Nothing more than smears of color and noise. You might think that the lyrium would sharpen my connection to dreams, but instead, it muddles them.”

Hawke watched him as he always did when Fenris strung more than a few sentences together at once. Like he didn’t dare to speak lest he break some spell Fenris was under. The idle thoughts of fools. Whose tongue did not loosen after a bottle of wine?

“Last night was not so different, but I could see more. I could feel…” He clenched and unclenched a hand. “Everything. All of my senses were heightened, even if the dream was foggy.”

“Was that what troubled you about it?” Hawke murmured. “The clarity?”

Fenris dragged his plated nails through the front of his hair. “That did unsettle me, but no. No, as always it was shapes and colors floating in a void, but last night I could -” Well, there was no easy way to say it. “- I could smell you.”

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure, right, that’s normal and I was expecting it completely. Do go on.”

Reaching out with a foot to sweep behind Hawke’s ankle, Fenris jostled him until he acquiesced. “You asked me what I dreamt, so cease your interruptions or I shall speak no more of it.”

Hawke grabbed his foot before it reached his inner thigh and held it fast around the ankle. “Sorry! Sorry, Fenris. Please.”

Hopefully he stopped staring at Hawke’s massive hand around his bare ankle before the indiscretion was noted. “I could smell you, and blood, and that was all. I tasted metal, and I could hardly breathe. The shapes were like dark towers of stone, and everything around them were smears of green. I was being chased, or… or I was chasing something. There was a monster. I was running. I could not find you, but your scent was everywhere. I was so afraid.”

That was probably too much to share, but it was difficult to stop once he began. Fenris would have to avoid Sun Blonde from now on. 

“What was the monster like?” Hawke asked, and he sounded strange. Nervous. Fenris looked into his eyes and searched them for answers.

“Massive and crawling with eyes. It walked on a hundred legs and it screamed and chased. It wasn’t you. You were there, but it wasn’t you.”

Hawke deflated a little with an exhale of relief. “Sure. Good. I mean, I don’t think I can turn into a terrifying spider creature, but who knows.”

Shaking his head, Fenris insisted, “No. I think… maybe I was you.”

Touching his bearded cheeks, Hawke said, “I’m getting a little flustered. You’re dreaming of me fighting off giant monsters in a scary green world - you’re turning into Varric.”

“I don’t have the capacity for all the hair,” Fenris drawled, reaching up to start unfastening the gauntlet of his left arm. “That was all. My body fought forever, and I was alone. I knew I would always be alone. It was a terrible dream. I woke feeling wretched, and that unease stayed with me for the rest of the day, and so I drank. Now I’m feeling much better, and you are here to eat. Come.”

He dropped the gauntlet to the floor and extended his bare arm to Hawke, beckoning him closer. An inscrutable look crossed Hawke’s face. “I’ll admit, I’d like to explore this unsettling dream a little further,” he said as he sank to his knees, settling in between Fenris’ sprawled legs. “But I suppose I can have a nibble first. You spoil me, Fenris.”

With a quiet scoff, Fenris watched Hawke press at his dark skin with his fingertips, tracing a vein up the meat of his forearm to the crook of his elbow. In between where the lyrium threads crisscrossed he found his spot, and swept a thumb over the skin before he lowered his lips. 

According to Hawke, there was a glamour effect to taking a victim without the intent to murder or turn. Something about pheromones and subtle magic that eased the pain of a bite to nothing, and left them clear of all memory. Also according to Hawke, he did not know how to do it well. The urge was there, he said, but he didn’t know how to tap into it the proper amount. He had no teacher to guide him, and for years there was no need; he ate with the intent to kill. 

That was perfectly fine with Fenris. He did not mind the pain, and in fact greatly preferred it to the far less appealing idea of having his senses numbed by magic. He knew Hawke did not like to hurt him, but he respected Fenris’ wishes every time. 

And like always, Fenris felt… well, everything. The scratch of Hawke’s beard as he drew close. The whisper of his lips as he parted them, the press of his fangs a split second before they pierced this new unscarred flesh. His teeth were razor sharp, but the puncture was not that of a needle; it was more like two daggers being thrust into him, clamped from below by Hawke’s bottom row of teeth. Then he pulled them out and suctioned his lips to the wound, drinking the rivulets that gushed forth. 

One of his meaty hands clasped Fenris’ opposite thigh for balance, and Fenris felt that, too. After a few moments - far too short a time to take his fill - Hawke made a little noise and pulled his head up. He pressed a hand over the wound to stem the flow and looked up, his mouth red with blood. “What the hell were you drinking? Normal wine?”

“What? Yes, why?”

“I can taste it in your blood, that’s why.” 

He drank again, and Fenris pondered such a thing. “I try not to drink when I know you’ll be eating,” he mused, looking down at the place Hawke’s thumb pressed against the thin leggings around his inner thigh. “I suppose that’s why it’s never been a problem.”

“‘S not a problem now,” Hawke mumbled against his skin, and cursed when blood trickled down Fenris’ arm and dripped to the floor.

The next time Hawke looked up, he had certainly eaten enough to satisfy himself, but there was something else in his eyes as he raised them. Fenris blinked. 

“Are you drunk?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was only a tipple.”

He licked his lips clean and ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. Fenris could not help but notice that he was still so close, leaning forward on his knees between Fenris’ legs, both hands on his thighs. What was odd was that Hawke himself seemed unaware. 

“Oh, this is nice. I haven’t had a proper drink in a long, long time.”

A grin spread across his lips and he leaned even closer, like he was sharing a secret. Fenris was a fool when he drank, a fact that became more apparent when he dragged his bare fingers through Hawke’s hair. “You are welcome to share a drink from me anytime.”

“Careful. I’ll take you up on that.”

His fangs were still out, still so sharp and long that Fenris didn’t know how Hawke hadn’t pierced his own bottom lip. 

“You can keep going.” 

The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, but once they were out, Fenris would not allow himself to regret them. Hawke raised his eyebrows and then looked down at Fenris’ arm. “Shouldn’t pierce that again so soon, or it’ll start to scar.”

“Elsewhere, then.” 

When Hawke slowly raised his eyes, Fenris unclasped the collar of his undershirt and pulled it to the side. Hawke had never drunk from his neck before, but Fenris would be even more of a liar if he said he wasn’t curious about it. A foolish part of him began to fear that Hawke would reject his offer, but that fear was trampled the moment Hawke sat up tall on both knees and leaned over his splayed body, diving straight for the skin offered to him. 

Once more, adrenaline surged through Fenris’ whole body as Hawke’s teeth found their precise point, right at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. When they sank in with a painful and exhilarating rending of flesh, Fenris gasped. His hands fisted into the shirt stretched across Hawke’s chest, pulling him closer. A grunt accompanied his thrilled noise, and Fenris realized that his legs had wrapped around Hawke’s waist of their own volition, crossed at the ankles. 

And yes, alright, Fenris was hard. With how ardently he pressed himself up against Hawke’s lower belly, he couldn’t be the only one to notice. 

“This fucking chair is going to collapse,” Hawke rasped against his neck, and with a mighty heave, he pulled Fenris with him toward the floor. Fenris was the one on his knees now, each one pressed to the floor on either side of Hawke’s hips. Hawke’s giant hands pulled him in, lips mashed to Fenris’ bleeding neck. 

The armor would take too long to take off, and Hawke gave up after scrabbling about the belts and buckles for a few arduous seconds. Instead he pulled at the waistband of Fenris’ leggings, easing him down onto his back on that dirty floor to take them off. 

Fenris’ smallclothes hid nothing of his passions, but he was thrust too far into bliss to care. If he didn’t know better, Fenris might fear that Hawke had unleashed his magic after all. But no, this was a cocktail of wine, adrenaline, Hawke’s overwhelming presence, and Fenris’ foolish heart. 

“I didn’t realize you liked being bitten so much,” Hawke said, straddling Fenris’ bare thighs. He looked up to meet his eyes with a question. A drop of blood lingered at the corner of his mouth. Fenris pressed his thumb to it, and lay that thumb against Hawke’s bottom lip. That was all the answer required of him. Hawke took the digit into his mouth and sucked away the blood, scraping his fang up along the skin before he let it fall out of his mouth. His hands made even quicker work of the smallclothes, and once they were gone and Fenris was half bare, Hawke jerked the belt from his hips with a snap and flung it off to a dark corner of the room. 

The fire crackled and popped in the hearth as Hawke threw everything off. Once his shirt was gone, Fenris touched him, running his fingers along the scars below Hawke’s chest and down the muscle and fat of his abdomen. When Hawke’s boots and trousers disappeared, Fenris gripped him by the hips and got him close. 

“Let me,” Hawke grunted, gripping the base of Fenris’ cock and stroking him until his erection was fat and heavy against his stomach. This was all moving so fast, yet not quite fast enough. Maybe the moment was passing in the blink of an eye, but it felt like weeks, months, and years in the making. 

“Is this too fast? It is, isn’t it.”

_ Stop reading my mind. _ “It isn’t,” Fenris snarled. A warm trickle tickled the side of his neck as it dripped down to the floor. “Come, Hawke.”

Hawke laughed a little breathlessly, “Yes, alright, no need to snap,” and gave Fenris one more affectionate tug before he sat up on his knees. When he touched Fenris to him, he was so wet. Hawke indulged himself in a little rub up and down Fenris’ length before Fenris rutted up against him. 

  
The first and last time they were together went a little something like this, too. Crashing and thrashing around, making a mess of the hall, the stairs, the bedroom. Hawke was a mage, not a gymnast, and he had an easier time bending and folding Fenris the way he wished than it was the other way around. Hawke’s muscle mass did not make for the world’s most flexible man, but he sank down onto Fenris’ cock now with such ease it was almost like he’d been practicing. 

He hadn’t been. Surely he hadn’t been. There were too many implications to count, and Fenris was entirely occupied with the sensation of being sunken down upon until Hawke had almost taken him to the hilt. His thighs shook with effort as Fenris clutched them. 

“I really need to take up stretching,” Hawke puffed, his face red. He lifted himself up again and sank down with a groan. “I don’t know how you’re so fucking limber.”

He did. He’d walked in on Fenris’ daily routine more than once. Fenris wasn’t of a mind to call him out for it. He could only take so much of Hawke’s slow rise and fall before he just couldn’t take it, and with a shove to Hawke’s chest and a bit of a wrestling down, their positions were reversed. 

“Join me. I’ll stretch with you.”

Hawke acted like the breath was knocked out of him, and then he choked himself on an inhale when Fenris pushed one of his knees back until it almost reached his chest. That sound stuttered and wheezed as Fenris found Hawke’s wet heat and sank back into him. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheek at the sensation. Hawke was a beautiful, powerful man, and he allowed… welcomed Fenris into him like it was nothing. Like he - 

  
But these were the thoughts that drove him from Hawke’s arms the last time. Not this time, and not now. Now, Fenris pressed his fingers to the sticky puncture wounds on his neck with his free hand, and with the other he pinned Hawke in place as he fucked him. 

Fenris rarely allowed himself to want, but Hawke made that exceptionally difficult. He gathered Fenris close, despite the burn in his legs, and wrapped him up in his arms as Fenris’ thrusts grew erratic. He was close. He wanted more. He wanted never to stop, and as he reached down with his bare hand to rub Hawke’s engorged clit, Hawke nearly bellowed a groan. 

“That’s it, my darling, come on,” Hawke gasped, squeezing tight around Fenris, and then - 

And then - 

Panting, sighing, scraping together what was left of his composure and then tossing it away, Fenris collapsed onto Hawke’s chest. Blood, sweat, and seed, that’s all they were. Hawke sniffled into his hair. 

“We’re going to have to talk about this.”

“Hm.”

Hawke chanced a kiss to Fenris’ ear. “Not now, but we will.”

“Hm.”

“... Can I stay over?”

Fenris snorted into his chest hair. “You’re hungry for another meal already?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Hawke insisted, scraping his nails over Fenris’ buttocks. “You see, he pairs so nicely with wine.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _“If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it / it becomes blood,”_ \- Naomi Shihab Nye
> 
> I'm writing a high fantasy comic about a wandering bard! [Check it out from the beginning HERE!](https://bardbouquet.tumblr.com/post/179195348759/a-dwarven-heirloom-a-blade-in-the-dark-and-a)
> 
> My Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> 


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